


Pathos and Logos

by Palebluedot



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Lazy Mornings, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Pillow Talk, blink and you miss it james/miranda/thomas, set just before James sets sail for Nassau, that first time not the Bad Time, the barest hint of bittersweetness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 22:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10751427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: He should have been on his way ten lost minutes ago. With a sigh, with a parting kiss to the corner of Thomas's mouth, James at last rises, and the sheets wind tight around his legs. The mattress dips behind him just as his feet brush the floor, and unseen fingers loosely encircle his wrist, keep him perched on the edge of the bed just long enough for a clinging shadow to press against his back, hold him fast about the waist.“Stay a moment longer,” comes the sweet whisper in his ear.





	Pathos and Logos

Gray light filters through the veiled window, chilly as the air around them, as everything besides this bed must be. Lying here, his ankles interlocked with Thomas's and their heads on one pillow, James can hardly remember a morning more peaceful, though he'll admit his memory could be dream-addled; his limbs are so _very_ heavy. Seeing James awake, Thomas's face brightens, opens – but there is distance there, too, as though some great horizon lies just behind James's eyes.

“Whatever could send you so far away so early in the day?” James asks him, reaching for his hand.

“I have been thinking at length,” Thomas tells him, dawn-soft, “on the subject of the advantages and disadvantages of giving one's heart to a Navy man.”

James raises an eyebrow, props himself up on one elbow. “Dare I inquire as to how they compare?”

Thomas rises to meet him, smiling playfully as he tucks an errant lock of hair behind James's ear. “Well, you haven't much to worry about, the pros rather outweigh the cons. Such a man is, of course, in admirable physical condition – strong hands, solid build, rigorously well-groomed, and so forth.” James blinks once, twice, nearly opens his mouth to comment, but Thomas plows on as though he hasn't just sized James up like a thoroughbred. “He's also spent plenty of time on ships with droves of restless sailors, so he's not entirely inexperienced in matters of, oh, we'll say _love_.” Now James _knows_ he's being played with. Try as he might to maintain a neutral façade, the barest hint of a smirk plays at the corners of Thomas's mouth, and his eyes flirt with twinkling.

“And I haven't even _begun_ to address the issue of the uniform,” Thomas adds, almost to himself, running his thumb over James's collarbone, right where his lapel would rest, had Thomas not stripped his jacket from him the night before. Thank God one of them had the foresight to drape it hastily over a chair so as to prevent its becoming atrociously rumpled – and that he hasn't bruises anywhere the collar won't cover. As though reading his mind, Thomas lets his fingertips wander to the hollow of James's throat, skims over the still-tender purple marks, eyes hooded. “What's more, he is brave and true, well-read, _wonderfully_ stubborn, rapier-sharp in a debate –”

“That describes every Navy man, then?” James interjects.

Thomas shrugs, airy. “Well, at least all the ones I've shared a bed with.”

“Ah, so just the important ones,” James remarks, and Thomas ducks his head and smiles, caught beautifully off-guard. “This all sounds rather too good to be true. I take it there are downsides?”

“Just the one,” Thomas sighs, and now that smile turns wistful. “The trouble is, you see, that this brilliant, charming sailor will sweep into your life, make himself so necessary to you that you can hardly imagine how you ever managed without him, then he'll turn around and sail away to the Bahamas, not to return for months on end.”

There's a heaviness in Thomas's voice now, and James feels it in his own chest, as though someone were trying to shove a fully-rigged ship out through the bottleneck between his ribs. “He takes no pleasure in the parting, I assure you.” Over Thomas's shoulder, he catches sight of the clock. He leans forward and presses his lips to Thomas's, just once, just soft, almost an apology. “And speaking of my upcoming voyage, I am in danger of arriving late to my meeting with the admiral.”

“Oh, but you sail tomorrow, and you've spent half your week tied up in meetings,” Thomas says, pleading gentle. He knocks their foreheads lightly together, and James doesn't miss the way the hand he brings up to caress the back of his neck holds him in place, a gilded cage he walked into willingly long ago, and never wants to leave. “I'm beginning to worry we won't have a chance to properly say goodbye.”

James's lips quirk, bittersweet. “You needn't fret on that score. I shall return this evening, and I'll be all yours to bid farewell as you like.”

“Not _all_ mine,” Thomas corrects, amused. “I'm quite sure my lady wife has designs on you, as well.”

“However will we manage that, I wonder?” James quips, and Thomas's huff of laughter only makes the next moment hang all the heavier, somehow. It only takes a look for James to know what darkness has swirled to the surface of Thomas's mind. He can't pretend his own heart hasn't felt the sharp drag of that same rushing undertow. Three months at sea, sailing to an island of blades – stranger, crueler things have happened. “Nonetheless, I _will_ return,” he promises, gripping Thomas's hand as though the joining of their palms might bridge the wide Atlantic, cold as steel.

Thomas nods, and his eyes burn the way stars burn, piercing and steadfast, and when he noses forwards, James does not fight the tide, but sinks into the warm push and drag of a kiss that fears extinction, that wants so desperately not to be the last. This was his mistake. Before he knows time has passed, the clock chimes, and he stills. He should have been on his way ten lost minutes ago. With a sigh, with a parting kiss to the corner of Thomas's mouth, James at last rises, and the sheets wind tight around his legs. The mattress dips behind him just as his feet brush the floor, and unseen fingers loosely encircle his wrist, keep him perched on the edge of the bed just long enough for a clinging shadow to press against his back, hold him fast about the waist.

“Stay a moment longer,” comes the sweet whisper in his ear.

James's smile is rueful. “The clock's just struck – ”

“ _I_ _t was the nightingale, and not the lark_ _t_ _hat pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear_ ,” Thomas recites. Pressure on his shoulder where Thomas hooks his chin, warmth at his pulse where he nuzzles, grazes his lips. “ _Believe me, love, it was the nightingale._ ” James feels him form each soft word. Though they beckon and they tempt, he can't help but think that perhaps they were chosen improperly. Star-crossed lovers, indeed – as far as James can tell, the only stars concerned with their meeting were the dependable sort one might navigate by.

“You would see me executed instead of banished?” James asks, bracing his hands on the mattress so as not to lean back too far, and never return.

The hand at his waist slides up his body, settles on his cheek – more arresting, somehow. “I would see you smile for me again,” Thomas murmurs. “For that, I must see you stay.”

James brings his own hand up to cover Thomas's, just one parting caress – then he moves to pull away, and Thomas entwines their fingers together, ensnaring James in his own embrace. He sighs. “If you do not release me, I shall be forced to report to the admiral that Lord Hamilton – ”

Though he faces the doorway, James knows just how Thomas's nose has wrinkled. “That is how my _father_ prefers to be addressed,” Thomas informs him, and James chuckles low.

“Apologies, my lord,” he amends, and Thomas scoffs in his ear, shakes his head. James grins. “I shall have to report that _Thomas_ Hamilton has engaged in an active, knowing sabotage of this enterprise, and must be assigned a liaison more willing to reprimand him.”

Behind him, Thomas sighs. “Well, we can't have that, can we?” Gently, he tugs James's hand back to his lips, then kisses his knuckles, then the flat of his fingers, then lets go. James moves to stand – and no sooner does his weight shift than a hand clasps his shoulder. “ _But_ ,” Thomas continues, “since we are both men of reason, surely you would be willing to entertain a counterpoint? Strictly from a poor devil's advocate, of course.”

 _More like the devil himself,_ James thinks without malice. “Provided that it's a brief one.”

"It's quite simple." Thomas's grin is audible. “Should you remain here long enough, you won't have to tell the admiral anything at all.”

It is a weak, childish argument, and James turns 'round to tell him so – and realizes too late that perhaps the real trick was Thomas getting James to _look_ at him again, all quiet coaxes and soft smiles, pillow-tousled hair brazenly inviting hands to tug at it, muss it further. Thomas rubs searching circles in James's shoulder with his thumb, and James is powerless to stop the flesh there from crying out for _more_. “That is, in its way, accurate,” he concedes, trying for levity and falling far short.

Thomas's laugh is a low rumble as he edges forwards. “A rather elegant solution, I thought.”

 _Come, death, and welcome –_ James swallows. “...I suppose I could afford to – ”

There are no other words for it – Thomas _pounces_ , falls on James and smothers him in kisses. His lips crush sweet, milk and honey and the nip of his teeth, eagerness toppling the pair of them gloriously off-balance. James's back hits the tangle of sheets, and in the name of retribution, he attempts momentarily to meditate on the merits and pitfalls of giving one's heart so completely to an incorrigible, siren-and-bloodhound nobleman, but God help him, with Thomas atop him, surrounding him, chasing kisses and winning them over and over again, the thoughts slip like waves between his fingers. Thomas cradles James's face in both his hands and smiles joyfully down at him for a heartbeat before James tilts his chin up to meet him, and they tumble together into madness once more.

**Author's Note:**

> I *just* posted a fic for these two *yesterday* and also I have to get up in 3.5 hours, so, uh, let's just say I'm not saying I *don't* have a problem. I am also not saying that I care.
> 
> People love to float theories about Who Was Shakespeare, Really? but as of the time of writing, none of those theories point to me, so I cannot claim credit for the nightingale situation nor the related "Come, death, and welcome", as they come from _Romeo and Juliet_. I hope my 9th grade English teacher is proud of how I ended up.
> 
> Comments are love!


End file.
